


Gathered Harvest

by soroga



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Extra Treat, Festivals, Friendship, Gen, Set Pre-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 06:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21249020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soroga/pseuds/soroga
Summary: Four friends go to an autumn festival together and make general nuisances of themselves.





	Gathered Harvest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fortune_Maiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fortune_Maiden/gifts).

The last traces of dim autumn sunlight are fading quickly from the sky when the mistress of ceremonies sends them off to find some more apples for the end-of-festival offering to the Goddess. 

“There’s some barrels left over by the edge of the orchard,” she says, pointing towards the newly-barren trees to the west, the last of their harvest gathered up earlier that very day. “I trust you to pick one worthy of the Goddess, Your Highness!”

“I will do my best,” Dimitri says seriously, though the mistress of ceremonies is smiling at them like she’s just told a joke.

Sylvain takes advantage of his longer stride to take the lead. Felix hurries to keep pace beside him despite being the shortest in their group, his long ponytail fluttering like a flag in the wind as he takes two steps for every one of Sylvain's. Dimitri and Ingrid exchange glances and follow at a more sedate pace, Ingrid lacing her fingers behind her back like Glenn does, Dimitri awkwardly cradling the flower-covered sheaf of wheat he has been given as guest of honor like he’s afraid he’ll crush it. As always, a single knight follows him.

This close to the Ethereal Moon, it’s cold enough in Fhirdiad that they’re all wearing coats. Even Sylvain, who says it’s already snowing in Gautier, has his hands jammed into his pockets to protect them from the wind. But Ingrid doesn’t mind the darkness or the cold. The autumn festival is all lit up with fires, and it glows behind them, welcoming and bright. 

Ahead of them, the apple barrels are just lumps in the dark. Ingrid squints, but it’s only when they get close enough that she sees why the mistress of ceremonies had told the four of them to bring back _one_ barrel – they’re bigger than she’d thought and piled nearly to overflowing with newly ripened apples. It will probably take all four of them together to lift one.

Of course, when she turns around, Sylvain is gone. 

“He was here a second ago,” Dimitri says, equally confused. 

Felix scowls, cheeks puffed up in indignation. “He left to flirt _now_? But we have something to do!”

“It’s fine,” Ingrid says, though she agrees with Felix. Sylvain’s behavior is a mystery that never gets any less frustrating. Ingrid is eight now, and she still doesn’t think she could ever say the kinds of things Sylvain said to her grandmother without dying of embarrassment. “We can probably lift it with the three of us. Unless you want to help?” She says the last uncertainly to the knight trailing Dimitri. 

The knight shrugs. “Protection duty only,” she says. “Besides, it builds character.”

Ingrid’s dad says that about everything, too. 

Ingrid sighs, but Dimitri is already kneeling down to tip the barrel against his chest. With his free hand, he hefts it up. It’s over half as tall as he is and must nearly equal his weight, but he only comes close to losing his balance once before he manages to straighten, safely supporting the bottom of the barrel with one arm while the other still holds the sheaf of wheat gently in the crook of his elbow.

Ingrid stares, mesmerized by this casual use of his Crest. She already knew he’s strong, but seeing it is amazing. “Okay, that works too,” she says. “We can drop it off and then go find – ”

“No,” Felix says. He has his arms crossed as he stares up at Dimitri. “Put it down, Dimitri! You can’t do it all by yourself. We have to do it _together_.” 

Ingrid is tempted to point out that Dimitri definitely can do it all by himself, but Dimitri just sighs and gently lowers the barrel to the ground again, barely managing to pull his hand out of the way before the weight settles. 

“Here,” Felix commands, grabbing a rake off the ground, “we’ll make a lever.”

Dimitri looks from Felix’s unyielding expression to the flimsy rake in his hands to the giant barrel of apples. Then he looks at Ingrid pleadingly.

One day, Ingrid will be a knight sworn to protect the prince, and strong enough to protect all the rest of her friends, too. But that day hasn’t come yet, and Ingrid doesn’t feel the need to protect them from each other. “I’m going to go look for Sylvain,” she announces, ignoring both Dimitri’s barely-restrained pout and Felix’s grunt of approval, which turns into a grunt of effort as he attempts to stick the handle of the rake underneath the barrel. 

It’s even darker now than it was a moment ago, but Sylvain hasn’t wandered far. Ingrid finds him just a little farther from the festival, facing the orchard as he stares at something, eyes intent. 

“There you are,” Ingrid says. “What are you doing?”

“Look,” Sylvain whispers, pointing.

She follows Sylvain’s finger, squinting until – 

There’s a figure standing right before the first line of trees, barely perceptible in the dark. They’re still, hat pulled down low over their eyes though the weather doesn’t call for it. Ingrid can’t see where they’re facing, but she is suddenly certain whoever it is is looking towards the start of the orchard, at Dimitri. 

Ingrid grips Sylvain’s arm. “Let’s go back and tell the knight,” she whispers, but Sylvain shrugs her off. 

“No, I want to talk to them,” he whispers back. “There’s something really genuine and romantic about the way they’re standing away from everyone.”

“Genuine and – have you lost your _mind_!?” Ingrid hisses, but Sylvain is already moving towards the dark figure. 

Ingrid isn’t about to let him get into trouble by himself, so she follows, hands tense the whole time. Of course she and Sylvain both know how to fight, but the only thing she has on her is a single dagger, and that person is a lot bigger than them. If there’s trouble, she’s not sure they can win.

Sylvain doesn’t seem to be thinking about any of that, of course. He doesn’t mask his steps at all and doesn’t blink before getting in the person’s grabbing range. “Hey,” he says, a smile pasted onto his face. “I saw you standing out here all alone and thought maybe you could use some company.” 

The stranger doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move. In the dark and with the hat obscuring their identity, it’s impossible to tell if they even acknowledge Sylvain with their eyes. 

“Sylvain, time to go,” Ingrid says, moving to grab Sylvain whether he wants to be grabbed or not. Sylvain dodges, but then he yelps as he trips on something, slamming right into the stranger’s side. 

Ingrid draws her dagger as the stranger rocks back, then leans over Sylvain, tipping closer, closer – 

And then the stranger’s head falls off. 

Ingrid and Sylvain stand in silence, staring at the straw-stuffed head. Then they turn as one to look at the headless scarecrow, which keeps tipping over, its pole no longer buried deeply enough in the dirt to keep it upright. They follow the movement with their heads as it falls, until finally it lies fully on the ground, its severed head beside it.

Slowly, Ingrid sheathes her dagger, then slides it back on her belt. 

“Sylvain,” she says. 

“Ingrid,” he says blankly back.

“...the head’s right there, if you still want to kiss it.” 

“_Ingrid!_” He sputters. “Come on! You thought it was a person too!”

“Wait until I tell the others,” Ingrid says. 

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says, reaching out. “My friend – my dear, trusted comrade who would never betray me – ” 

But Ingrid is already spinning around to run, laughing. 

“INGRID!” Sylvain shouts after her, but even though he’s taller, she’s always been faster. She loops around the edge of the field in no time at all, breathless with laughter, and skids to a halt before Dimitri and Felix. 

“You’ll never guess what – what happened to you?” She asks Felix, because Felix is positively covered in apple innards. There are smears of white apple flesh all over his face and neck, and more crushed chunks stuck in his hair and sticking to the fur of his coat. 

“Dimitri,” Felix grinds out, wiping fruitlessly at his own squeezed-shut eyes. Ingrid thinks there’s probably juice in them.

“I apologize again, Felix,” Dimitri says miserably. Then, to Ingrid, “the lever didn’t work and the barrel fell, so we were gathering the apples, but then I squeezed too hard. I was concentrating so hard on keeping the wheat undamaged that I wasn’t minding my own strength enough.”

“So you exploded an apple?” Ingrid says incredulously just as Sylvain reaches them. 

“Who exploded an apple?” He asks. 

Dimitri winces. “It might have been two apples. Sorry, Felix.” 

“It’s fine,” Felix says, eyes still shut. Sylvain darts forward, handkerchief in hand, to wipe them. “I said it’s fine, Sylvain!”

“Do you want to be able to see the end of the festival or not?” Sylvain asks.

“And to still help with the apples,” Ingrid adds, because she knows how to handle Felix. 

Felix submits to Sylvain’s clumsy cleaning efforts while Ingrid inspects the barrel. One of the hoops has been dented somehow, and the stave directly beneath the dent is looking a bit worse for wear, but she thinks it’ll hold long enough for them to get the apples back. 

She leans down to finish gathering up the apples that fell. Dimitri kneels down beside her to help, and Ingrid spends a moment thinking of the most diplomatic way to say that he might help more by doing nothing before she catches sight of the ceremonial sheaf still whole in his hand. Even the delicate garlands of flowers woven through it look undamaged in the moonlight. 

“I’ll take the apples on this side, Your Highness,” she says to Dimitri instead. His answering smile is more than worth the possibility of a few crushed apples.

Felix and Sylvain join them just when they’re getting ready to heave the barrel up. “We can rest it on our shoulders,” Felix says as he looks it over.

“My shoulders are a lot higher than yours,” Sylvain points out. “Wouldn’t it be easier if Dimitri carried it?”

“We’re carrying it together,” Ingrid says firmly, and when it looks like Sylvain might protest again, she shoots him a look that wordlessly communicates what she might divulge to the others if he does. Sylvain does not protest again. 

“Let’s do it on three,” Dimitri says. “One, two – three!” 

The barrel is _really_ heavy, and then it’s settled on their shoulders, and it suddenly isn’t. Ingrid suspects Dimitri is carrying most of its weight, but she’s not going to say anything. She puts a hand under the barrel for balance and finds another one of her friends’ hands already there, sticky with apple juice.

“Better hurry,” the knight guarding Dimitri says, nodding towards the festival, where the fires have gotten even bigger. “Looks like they’re about to start.” 

“I’m not worried,” Ingrid says. She squeezes the hand under hers. “We’ll get there.”


End file.
